yiling matriarch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marginalia) wrote2004-05-12 10:54 am
marginalia) wrote2004-05-12 10:54 am
fic: knaves and thieves. dom/oz. lotrips/btvs crossover & verona beach au
[knaves and thieves] - dom/oz, verona beach au. part one, i suspect.
so i was trying to figure out what to write next, because the bsc fic is in beta and the billy/dom remix makes me want to slit my wrists, and then i saw that it's![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glossing's birthday. the first thing about gloss is she's amazing. the second thing about gloss is that thanks to her i am now really confused when people list giles/oz as a rare or odd pairing. theirloveissocanon . . isn’t it?
but i'm as intimidated as all hell to write -that-, and then this pair tapped me on the shoulder. and they -are- on my to-write list. fare thee well, guilt! so, now that the notes are longer than the story…also, i'm not actually back yet. *wavy hands*
Dom doesn’t know how he got here, and he's decided that he doesn't care. All that matters is that it happened.
Probably, though, if he stopped to think about it, it would appear as a detour on the way to Billy from Elijah, or the other way around. Driving too fast, drifting towards the sea, whatever. He's here now and he's in no hurry to leave. The air here chokes him sometimes, but not as often or as strong as the hierarchy surrounding Billy's shoot or the aristocracy of LA.
He has a tiny flat in a decaying, stuccoed building, but that too is unimportant. It offers a mattress on the floor, his own washroom, and more space than he had with Elijah. He's rarely there, opting instead for the madness of the streets and the beach. The world here is as colorful and violent as any he's ever imagined for himself, and he doesn't have to act, doesn't have to spin an imitation Dom for cameras and screams. The flash of his own eyes is enough now, the screams, well, they're anywhere if you're good enough.
The sun is starting to set, taking its sweet, brilliant time slipping towards the horizon, and the beach is starting to sparkle with fires and fairy lights. He runs his fingers through his hair - the sun has proved an admirable substitute for high-priced stylists - then steps out into the night, the pareu slung low and snug around his hips. The town will be warm tonight, the beach warmer still, and he likes the soft whisper of the fabric against his legs. The bright print rivals anything Orlando ever wore.
Dom doesn't have a plan. Through the heat of the day girls and boys have whispered to him of parties he must attend or bonfires he must grace with his presence, but he has committed to nothing and anything. The sea shall pull him where she will.
He hesitates for a moment outside the door of Illyria, but is drawn away by music and perfume and shouts of anger and passion. He fingers his wristbands as he walks, holding himself in, and almost misses him altogether.
The boy is cradled in the shadows of the abandoned carousel, curled around a seemingly-forgotten guitar, one leg swinging off the edge and dreamily swirling the rhythm of the hymn-like song. He's singing low, almost chanting, and it reminds Dom of a lullaby, of things he heard in New Zealand, of melodies he has yet to hear.
He watches the boy for a while, his swinging foot and his parted lips, and maybe he says "come," and maybe he doesn't say anything at all and the boy just knows. He hops down from the carousel, hides the guitar away underneath, and offers his hand. "Hey," he says. "I'm Oz," he says, but he lays his finger over Dom's lips before he can respond. "Shhh," he adds, and "later." His finger sweeps up Dom's cheekbone and down his jawline, and his thumb strokes the cleft of Dom's chin. Oz tilts his head, eyes sharp. "Breathe," he suggests, then takes Dom's hand and leads him down the beach.
They pass parked cars, some alive with headlights and with bass thumping from the speakers, some that look as though they've grown on the beach - or been buried there. They stop at a bar named Elysium, the sign barely readable in the light from the moon. To call it a bar is generous, it's hardly a hut, worn patio furniture and flickering lanterns scattered around it. Dom supposes all the sand is their dance floor. That works for him.
Oz gets them drinks and toasts to chance. "Now," Oz says.
"I'm Dom," he replies, and something catches in his throat. He's suddenly, absurdly afraid that if he opens his mouth again all his words will come pouring out, his whole history staining the sand with ink, no wrist bindings or faded scrawl on his hands enough to keep everything in check. He's rarely been so quiet and he doesn't know how to make it last.
"That's enough for here," Oz says, "For now." He turns suddenly and stops a small girl running by, sparklers in her hands. He drops down to address her face-to-face, then stands up bearing two sparklers and hands one to Dom. They light them off of the lanterns outside Elysium, and walk towards the water, light dancing on the air. They write their names in loopy scripts, spinning circles around them, and they write other names too, names that burn away clean. As the sparklers finish and cool, Oz bends them small and safe and tucks them in his back pocket.
They sit cross-legged on the sand, talking between the spaces in the sky and the water, watching until the wind begins to come in, pushing dark clouds that hide away the stars. They start back up the beach and Dom says, "Come back with me."
Oz says it's not that bad, that he's got his things under the carousel and it's dry and no one much bothers him, but Dom can't bear to leave him there, dreaming under horses that used to circle around to nowhere and now don't even do that. He knows Oz would be fine, he's strong all over, he can take care of himself, and he worries that he can't say it without sounding condescending. He thinks if anything Oz can protect him from the things that come alive in the dark.
"Just come," Dom says as the raindrops start to fall, fat and heavy. He can feel each one as it hits his skin, everywhere Oz hasn’t touched him yet. "Just." He imagines the air thick between them, imagines crossing the distance and kissing Oz, imagines that if he lets him go the shadows and the ghosts will claim him and when Dom returns the carousel will be truly deserted, but he says none of these things, just grasps at the air and the rain with helpless hands.
So Oz ducks his head and smiles and says, "Well, okay." They gather his things and hurry back to Dom's flat, through static and voices from radios and televisions, blue light flickering behind windows as horns honk in the distance.
Inside, in dry clothes, Oz curls up on his side and Dom curls around him, only touching where the tips of his fingers brush the small of Oz's back. In the morning Dom will see the ginger hair and the sleepy eyes and wonder for a moment, but he's here, they're here now, and that's all that matters.
so i was trying to figure out what to write next, because the bsc fic is in beta and the billy/dom remix makes me want to slit my wrists, and then i saw that it's
glossing's birthday. the first thing about gloss is she's amazing. the second thing about gloss is that thanks to her i am now really confused when people list giles/oz as a rare or odd pairing. theirloveissocanon . . isn’t it?but i'm as intimidated as all hell to write -that-, and then this pair tapped me on the shoulder. and they -are- on my to-write list. fare thee well, guilt! so, now that the notes are longer than the story…also, i'm not actually back yet. *wavy hands*
Dom doesn’t know how he got here, and he's decided that he doesn't care. All that matters is that it happened.
Probably, though, if he stopped to think about it, it would appear as a detour on the way to Billy from Elijah, or the other way around. Driving too fast, drifting towards the sea, whatever. He's here now and he's in no hurry to leave. The air here chokes him sometimes, but not as often or as strong as the hierarchy surrounding Billy's shoot or the aristocracy of LA.
He has a tiny flat in a decaying, stuccoed building, but that too is unimportant. It offers a mattress on the floor, his own washroom, and more space than he had with Elijah. He's rarely there, opting instead for the madness of the streets and the beach. The world here is as colorful and violent as any he's ever imagined for himself, and he doesn't have to act, doesn't have to spin an imitation Dom for cameras and screams. The flash of his own eyes is enough now, the screams, well, they're anywhere if you're good enough.
The sun is starting to set, taking its sweet, brilliant time slipping towards the horizon, and the beach is starting to sparkle with fires and fairy lights. He runs his fingers through his hair - the sun has proved an admirable substitute for high-priced stylists - then steps out into the night, the pareu slung low and snug around his hips. The town will be warm tonight, the beach warmer still, and he likes the soft whisper of the fabric against his legs. The bright print rivals anything Orlando ever wore.
Dom doesn't have a plan. Through the heat of the day girls and boys have whispered to him of parties he must attend or bonfires he must grace with his presence, but he has committed to nothing and anything. The sea shall pull him where she will.
He hesitates for a moment outside the door of Illyria, but is drawn away by music and perfume and shouts of anger and passion. He fingers his wristbands as he walks, holding himself in, and almost misses him altogether.
The boy is cradled in the shadows of the abandoned carousel, curled around a seemingly-forgotten guitar, one leg swinging off the edge and dreamily swirling the rhythm of the hymn-like song. He's singing low, almost chanting, and it reminds Dom of a lullaby, of things he heard in New Zealand, of melodies he has yet to hear.
He watches the boy for a while, his swinging foot and his parted lips, and maybe he says "come," and maybe he doesn't say anything at all and the boy just knows. He hops down from the carousel, hides the guitar away underneath, and offers his hand. "Hey," he says. "I'm Oz," he says, but he lays his finger over Dom's lips before he can respond. "Shhh," he adds, and "later." His finger sweeps up Dom's cheekbone and down his jawline, and his thumb strokes the cleft of Dom's chin. Oz tilts his head, eyes sharp. "Breathe," he suggests, then takes Dom's hand and leads him down the beach.
They pass parked cars, some alive with headlights and with bass thumping from the speakers, some that look as though they've grown on the beach - or been buried there. They stop at a bar named Elysium, the sign barely readable in the light from the moon. To call it a bar is generous, it's hardly a hut, worn patio furniture and flickering lanterns scattered around it. Dom supposes all the sand is their dance floor. That works for him.
Oz gets them drinks and toasts to chance. "Now," Oz says.
"I'm Dom," he replies, and something catches in his throat. He's suddenly, absurdly afraid that if he opens his mouth again all his words will come pouring out, his whole history staining the sand with ink, no wrist bindings or faded scrawl on his hands enough to keep everything in check. He's rarely been so quiet and he doesn't know how to make it last.
"That's enough for here," Oz says, "For now." He turns suddenly and stops a small girl running by, sparklers in her hands. He drops down to address her face-to-face, then stands up bearing two sparklers and hands one to Dom. They light them off of the lanterns outside Elysium, and walk towards the water, light dancing on the air. They write their names in loopy scripts, spinning circles around them, and they write other names too, names that burn away clean. As the sparklers finish and cool, Oz bends them small and safe and tucks them in his back pocket.
They sit cross-legged on the sand, talking between the spaces in the sky and the water, watching until the wind begins to come in, pushing dark clouds that hide away the stars. They start back up the beach and Dom says, "Come back with me."
Oz says it's not that bad, that he's got his things under the carousel and it's dry and no one much bothers him, but Dom can't bear to leave him there, dreaming under horses that used to circle around to nowhere and now don't even do that. He knows Oz would be fine, he's strong all over, he can take care of himself, and he worries that he can't say it without sounding condescending. He thinks if anything Oz can protect him from the things that come alive in the dark.
"Just come," Dom says as the raindrops start to fall, fat and heavy. He can feel each one as it hits his skin, everywhere Oz hasn’t touched him yet. "Just." He imagines the air thick between them, imagines crossing the distance and kissing Oz, imagines that if he lets him go the shadows and the ghosts will claim him and when Dom returns the carousel will be truly deserted, but he says none of these things, just grasps at the air and the rain with helpless hands.
So Oz ducks his head and smiles and says, "Well, okay." They gather his things and hurry back to Dom's flat, through static and voices from radios and televisions, blue light flickering behind windows as horns honk in the distance.
Inside, in dry clothes, Oz curls up on his side and Dom curls around him, only touching where the tips of his fingers brush the small of Oz's back. In the morning Dom will see the ginger hair and the sleepy eyes and wonder for a moment, but he's here, they're here now, and that's all that matters.
no subject
thank you! i liked that bit a lot too, because, i don't know, it just held a lot of what i think about that character all the time and i finally found a good way to say it.